He walked into the room, and immediately his eyes were drawn to her, back slumped against the chair, still in the same place he had left her. The tension was taut like a string, stretched so far and so tight it was a miracle it (they) didn't snap into pieces. As he drew nearer, he could see the lines etched on her face, around her tired eyes. At once, the weight of her inescapable mortality rested heavy on his heart.
His footsteps were soft, so light, but years of seeing him, knowing him – she was attuned to his every movement. She turned slowly towards him, her eyes (was it just him, or were they framed in red?) looking directly into his. Startled, he waited, a few moments, minutes – it wasn't that he didn't want to speak; it was just that all that remained now was her gaze, and him drowning in it.
"I need a wig."
He didn't quite understand.
"What?" He asked.
She repeated it. "I need a wig."
When his confusion didn't disappear, she held up a hand, tightly clutching something red, glinting in the light. It was her hair, he realized, watching in fascination as the strands curled possessively around her fingers. He reached out to lower her arm, hurt (was it, really?) piercing him when she suddenly jerked away from his grasp.
"Don't touch me," she whispered, and was that fear in her eyes?
No, not fear. Only the deepest sadness. (Was it, really?)
Grief struck him, and Gods, was he already mourning her?
"What do you want me to do?" he asked quietly.
She closed her eyes.
"Nothing," she said softly. "I just want to be alone."
He nodded, even though she could not see him through her closed lids. He stood up (when did he sit down?), and a sudden desire clenched his heart; an intense yearning for forgiveness, although for what he did not know. After all, what had he done that she also did not do?
"Laura, I –"
"No," her eyes snapped open, and she held up a shaking hand, the auburn strands gently floating to the floor. "Don't say anything. Just…just go."
"All right," he said, finally giving up. "All right."
He made his way towards the door.
She did not want him to ask, because she will forgive if he voices it out loud. She does not want to let go, she does not want to forget. She prefers the silence, the simmering near-regrets and almost-loves, just under the surface.
She needs a wig.
The realization twists at his heart, and he looks back at her, finding her staring at him. He will drown in her eyes.
He shuts the door behind him and leans on it wearily.
She needs a wig.
When he comes back she is not there anymore.